


Sam's Abiding Love

by Rakshi



Category: Sam's Abiding Love
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:35:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rakshi/pseuds/Rakshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam comes to some painful realizations... with Gandalf and Faramir's help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam's Abiding Love

**Author's Note:**

> From Waymeet's The Long-expected Party Challenge - Two Towers.  
> My quote: "For a moment it appeared to Sam that his master had grown and Gollum had shrunk: a tall stern shadow, a mighty lord who hid his brightness in grey cloud, and at his feet a little whining dog. Yet the two were in some way akin and not alien: they could reach one another's minds."
> 
> Warning: This is probably the saddest story I've ever written. I didn't mean it to be, but this is where the muses led me. So if you don't like to see Sam cry... don't read this.

Sam stood silently at one end of a great battlement. Below him were spread the roads and fields of the Pelennor and beyond them, the great river, Anduin, swept southwest toward the sea. It was one of the grandest views that one small hobbit could ever remember seeing and Sam gazed out in awe at the scene that stretched before him. Far below, he could see workmen leading great, ox-pulled wains slowly here and there, tiny dots against the gold and brown grasses. Though Sam was too far away to realize it, they were clearing the field of battle rubble which still covered parts of its grassy flanks.

With a sigh he turned away, walking slowly down the cobblestone streets toward the house he shared with Frodo and the other members of their company. It had been only a few weeks since he and Frodo were borne from the fiery mountain, and much had happened in the short time since Sam had awakened at Frodo’s side in Ithellian.

They discovered to their joy that Gandalf had not fallen in Moria and that Strider - their Strider - was now ruler of Gondor! To Sam’s immense delight, he and Frodo had been feted on the fields of Cormallen, and even heard their deeds sung of by minstrels. After much merrymaking they had traveled to the white city to see Aragorn crowned. The entire fellowship had gathered for the great ceremony, and Sam had watched with surpassing pride as Frodo bore Aragorn’s crown, thinking that such honor was no more than what was due his beloved master.

And tales! In the past few weeks Sam listened again and again with a wildly beating heart as his friends told him tales of their exploits which rivaled even the stories he had heard as a lad from dear Mr. Bilbo. Their Fellowship had, seemingly, been through adventures which would be sung of by minstrels for generations to come.

But best of all to Sam, Mr. Frodo was slowly recovering. Sam had tended to his daily needs with concerned devotion and was overjoyed to see a marked improvement in his master’s health and spirits. His appetite had returned and it made Sam’s heart swell with happiness to see him eating with a Hobbit’s enthusiasm once again.

And yet in the midst of these good tidings a nagging sense of confusion and uneasiness haunted him. Normally gregarious and talkative, Sam had become unusually quiet in recent days. And even though they were a bit overwhelmed by all they had experienced lately, his friends had begun to take notice. Even Frodo, after casting many worried glances his way, had taken him aside and anxiously inquired if he were quite well.

Sam knew he had to lay this uncertainty to rest... and soon. He would not have his beloved master fretting when he had just begun to recover from the suffering he endured during the quest. And yet, he could not for all the world even begin to think of where to find the answer to his inner questions, or who might be able to provide that answer.

He could not talk to Frodo, that much was certain. Sam doggedly refused to further burden the master he loved, fearing a setback to his still-fragile health. Strider was King Elessar now and too much involved with affairs of state to have time to chat with one small hobbit. Gandalf was similarly occupied. He didn’t know Legolas or Gimli well enough to unburden himself to them, and he simply didn’t feel comfortable telling the other hobbits. This was too deeply personal to Sam. He could only share these thoughts with someone he trusted with his whole heart.

“What would I say at any rate?” Sam muttered to himself. “I can’t explain. I haven’t a clue how to talk about this… this _thing_.” He felt utterly wretched to think that his uneasiness had troubled Frodo and vowed that he would present a more cheerful face during the daytime hours. But the nights! What could Sam do about his vision-haunted nights? Again and again the same image returned in his dreams, robbing him of peaceful sleep, darkening his waking thoughts. It was a vision he had seen twice, once in the Emyn Muil and again on the Mountain of Fire.

Before Sam’s disbelieving eyes, Frodo had become a commanding figure robed in white who towered above a cowering Gollum, wielding an authority which was absolute in its power. Sam had never seen Frodo like that and he knew instinctively that the vision which appeared before him had come from an odd place within himself - a place which saw with _other_ sight rather than through his brown hobbit eyes.

 _It’s as if I saw them with my heart and not my head,_ Sam thought to himself.

And as he beheld this vision Sam also instinctively knew that though the two adversaries were locked in grim conflict over the bright band of gold that hung about Frodo’s neck, they were also alike in ways that Sam could not begin to define. There was a part of Frodo’s mind that melded with Gollum’s, binding them together and joining their thoughts, and this troubled Sam deeply.

“How could this **be**?” Sam questioned aloud. “How could my good and gentle master be like to that foul stinker Gollum?” He shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he whispered in a low voice. “I don’t understand any of it. It’s all too much for the likes of me. Sam Gamgee’s head wasn’t meant to deal with such goings-on!”

He lifted his head as he approached the large house where he lived with his friends, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of a white banner fluttering high above him as it caught the breeze.

“That’s the Stewards’ flag,” Sam said in soft recognition. “Faramir’s flag. It hangs near the citadel until he goes to his princedom in Ithilien.” The sight of the white standard held him motionless for a moment, then he smiled and when he spoke his voice was firmer: “Faramir!”

He turned away from the house and moved quickly along the stone streets, climbing higher and higher as he followed the path that led to the citadel. He was still uncertain, but he knew he had to try. “The Lady help me, I don’t know if I can even _find_ Lord Faramir, or if he’ll remember Sam Gamgee when I do find him. But he showed he was a man of quality and I trust his counsel. It may be that he can help me understand what I saw there in that dark land.”

He finally reached the narrow approach which led to the seventh gate and the High Court. Soldiers wearing the uniform of the Guard of the Tower of Gondor stood at the entry and Sam wondered if his passage would be blocked. Filled with apprehension, he slowed as he drew near the entrance, but the guards smiled at him so he took courage and bowed courteously before them.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sirs,” he stammered. “I’m lookin’ for Master Faramir – I mean Lord Faramir – I mean _Prince_ Faramir. Might you point me to where I could find him?”

To his surprise the tall men bowed in return, and Sam heard them converse briefly in a tongue he didn’t understand, though he heard the word _Pherian_ and knew from his talks with Pippin that this was their word for Hobbit .

One of the men turned to him and once again bowed low. There was a puzzled look on his face. “ _Ernil i pheriannath_?” he asked in a puzzled tone.

Sam recognized the title ‘Prince of the Halflings’ which the people of Minas Tirith, much to Sam’s chagrin, had bestowed on Pippin. “Oh no, sir, not me!” he hastened to assure them. “I’m no prince. I’m just a simple hobbit, sir. A gardener when I’m at home, if you understand me. But Mr. Faramir, I mean _Prince_ Faramir, is by way of bein’ a friend of mine, if I may make so bold. Could you tell me where I might find him?”

The soldier seemed to understand. He spoke again to his companion, and then signaled Sam to follow him. As they walked, Sam looked about. He had been in the High Court before, of course, but that had been during a public ceremony and he had been but one small hobbit amid thousands of cheering city dwellers. Now as he followed the guard toward an imposing building he saw workmen scurrying throughout the courtyard repairing damage done by the catapults. Occasionally, too, he spotted caretakers who were bent over flower beds, planting and tending new seedlings. He longed to stop and question these gardeners of Gondor about the blossoms they favored here, but there was no time. The guard had halted; they had, apparently, arrived at their destination.

The guard pointed to a low bench nearby, seeming to suggest that Sam wait there, then disappeared into the building. Sam sighed and seated himself, his hands folded in his lap, wondering what in Middle-earth he would say to Faramir if he did manage to see the young prince.

“I shall look every inch the fool,” Sam muttered to himself. “Though for certain it won’t be the first time Lord Faramir has seen Sam Gamgee behave like a ninnyhammer.”

He gazed about, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the size the great square. Huge statues of Gondorian warriors stood tall in various niches, and a fountain near the center seemed to sing as its waters danced high in the air. Even the bench upon which Sam sat was enormous by Shire standards. His feet dangled far above the ground, and he felt sure he’d have to hop off like a Shire-lad in his tweens when the guard reappeared. Minas Tirith was beautiful. Carved as it was from the soaring stones of Mount Mindolluin, its majestic vistas both thrilled and frightened him. Gazing up at the white towers that rose high above his vantage point, Sam felt suddenly small and insignificant in comparison. He put both hands on the bench and pushed himself off it. “I should go,” he quavered. “I don’t belong here.”

Suddenly a voice rang out, clear and joyful in the morning air. “Sam! Sam, my friend! How good it is to see you again!”

He turned and saw Faramir walking quickly toward him, the guard at his side. Faramir was smiling and as he reached Sam he knelt before him. “My beloved friend,” he said softly, taking Sam’s hand and kissing it.

“My lord!” Sam protested, pulling his hand away. “The Steward doesn’t bow before _me_! ‘Tisn’t proper, sir. I am the one who should bow to _you_!” And putting both hands on his breast, he bent low before Faramir.

The Steward placed both hands on Sam’s arms. “But you are wrong, my friend. Such honor is properly accorded those who have done great deeds of renown and valor. We all owe you both so much.” He hesitated, then spoke softly. "I knew you'd protect him."

Sam blushed furiously and shyly met the Steward’s eyes. “As best I could, my lord. And none too good it was at times in that dark place.”

Faramir stood and beckoned to Sam. “My chambers are nearby. Won’t you sit a few moments and chat with me? I shall order refreshments…,” Faramir added with a smile, “for, as I recall, Hobbits are fond of eating.”

Sam followed, smiling in return. “We are, indeed, my lord,” he replied eagerly. “And I’d be most happy to chat with you for a time… ‘tis mostly for that reason that I sought you out. I’ve a matter weighin’ heavy on my mind… eatin’ it up, as the sayin’ goes.”

Faramir shot him a worried glance as they entered the Stewards chambers, then instructed a nearby servant to bring food and drink. “Sit, Sam,” he said, guiding Sam to a chair. “Be at ease and tell me this thing that weighs on your mind. We shall soon set all to rights.”

Sam slowly poured out his story. He told the young Steward of what he had seen in the Emyn Muil and on the slopes of Mt. Doom. His speech grew more halting and hesitant as he continued, and Faramir could see that he was deeply affected by this experience.

“I simply don’t understand it, sir. I don’t know how my master could be like to that evil Gollum. I don’t understand how they could be akin or how Gollum could reach my master’s mind. Yet… I knew in that moment on the mountain that it was true!” He looked up at Faramir, his face both puzzled and sad. “I thought that perhaps you could tell me what it all means, bein’ wise as you are, and havin’ a good heart and all.”

Faramir sat silently while the servant brought food and drink for them, then nodded his thanks and directed the man to leave. He poured a draught of ale in each of their cups, then sighed. “Sam, I’m sorry that you are distressed by this vision. And I know this tale is but one of many one you could impart that tell of the great wickedness in that dread place. I feared deeply for both of you when you left with that foul creature. I could sense the evil within his black heart, but Frodo insisted that he be your guide.”

“And you were right, sir, for he tricked and betrayed us.”

Faramir nodded. “As I feared he would.”

“And yet my master could do no other, having given his word.” Sam shook his head. “My master’s heart is honest and good, and he is ever kind to all creatures, even to that black-hearted stinker!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “He bade me forgive him when we were high on the mountain after the Ring was destroyed. After all the evil that piece of misery had done to hurt and betray my master… Frodo bade me forgive him!” He looked up at Faramir, his brown eyes bright with tears. “Forgive him,” he whispered.

“Sam,” Faramir said sadly, reaching out to clasp Sam’s shoulder, “I wish I had words to comfort you. But I, too, am puzzled by your vision. I don’t see how Frodo could be, in any way, like Gollum. It passes my understanding. Could you be mistaken in the way you read the omens?”

“No, sir,” Sam said despondently. “Of that much I am sure. Sam Gamgee doesn’t know much, but this he does know. It was my heart I saw them with… not my eyes, if you understand me. And I know my heart is right. I felt it, sir.” He sighed then repeated in a low voice… “I _felt_ it.”

Faramir smiled at him. “Don’t give up hope, Sam. I trust your heart far more than I’d trust the head of those who call themselves ‘wise’. There is an answer to this puzzle.”

“May be that there is,” Sam said quietly. “But I don’t know where to look for it.”

“You must go to Gandalf,” Faramir said decisively. “You must tell him your story and let him interpret the omens you saw in your vision. He can explain these things to you far better than I.”

“Mr. Gandalf’s been mighty busy lately,” Sam responded after a moment’s silence. “He’s been with Strid – I mean King Elessar and I suppose they’re makin’ important plans. He can’t be bothered with my story.”

“He shall hear it none the less,” Faramir said firmly, rising and taking Sam’s arm. “I feel your vision is important, Sam. Not just for you, but for Frodo as well.”

This stopped Sam’s protests. He was hesitant to put himself forward, particularly with Gandalf, still feeling somewhat fearful of the great wizard. But where his master’s well-being was concerned, he quickly set his own fears aside. Standing, he gazed up at the tall Gondorian prince. “Important to Frodo?”

“It may be,” Faramir answered him. “Follow me, Sam.”

Faramir led him into the inner reaches of the citadel. In small cubicles along the way, men of Gondor talked together. Some poured over maps, while others were looking at scrolls and parchments. In one of these cubicles sat Gandalf and after leading Sam in, Faramir bowed low before him.

“My friend, would you have a moment to spare for a young hobbit here who has need of your counsel?”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Gandalf muttered absently, lifting his head from the scrolls he’d been examining. Then he stood, returned Faramir’s bow and turned expectantly to Sam. “What is this about, Samwise? What is amiss? Is Frodo well?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said quietly. “My master is well enough.” He hesitated, glancing fearfully at the wizard.

“Sam needs to speak to you regarding a vision he saw during the days of the quest,” Faramir explained. “He needs your help to understand its meaning.”

“A vision!” Gandalf blurted, clearly astounded. “ _You_ , Sam? Why have you not spoken of this before?”

“I didn’t quite know how to say it, Mr. Gandalf. It was a queer thing I saw. Odd, you might say.”

Gandalf gestured to a chair. “Sit down, Sam. Faramir? Will you stay?”

“No, I fear I must return to my duties,” Faramir replied, seeming to ignore Sam’s look of mute appeal. “But come to my office when you’re done here, Sam, and I’ll walk back with you to the city. I wish to look in on Frodo.” He knelt before the Hobbit and spoke in a soft voice: “Speak the truth, Sam. Don’t be afraid.”

Sam nodded and sat silently, chaffing his hands, as Gandalf and the Steward exchanged a few quiet words. Then Gandalf returned to him and sat down.

“Well now, Sam,” he said kindly. “A vision is it? Let’s hear your story, my lad.”

Stumbling now and then Sam retold the story of what he had seen in the dark land. The wizard asked him a few pointed questions and he responded as best he could. When he was done he drew in a long sigh and looked at Gandalf expectantly.

“That’s what I saw, sir. And now I can’t seem to make the vision go away. It dogs my mind, as the sayin’ goes, especially at night. And I don’t understand it, Mr. Gandalf. How could that evil Gollum see into my master’s mind? Why did Frodo look like that… all lordly and tall and with that wheel of fire on his chest. It’s beyond me, sir. And it troubles my mind.”

Gandalf nodded and patted Sam’s shoulder. “You have rare vision, Samwise. You’re able, at times, to see not only what people ‘look’ like but who they are _inside_ and why they appear the way they do.”

“My master is a tall, shining lord with a hard, cruel face?” Sam stammered in dismay. “It can’t be!”

“No, no,” Gandalf soothed. “You forget, Sam, that when you saw these things your master still bore the Ring of the enemy. It was not Frodo you saw, or at least not _merely_ Frodo. You also saw the power of the Ring shining through him.”

Sam’s voice quavered. “That horrible Ring… he suffered so because of it. It near broke my heart.”

“And as far as the meeting of Frodo’s mind with Gollum’s, that is a different thing altogether.”

“Why so, sir?”

“Gollum had been long under the Ring’s power. It was a canker in his mind, eating it away. What you saw, Sam, was the part of Frodo’s mind which the Ring had, likewise, taken under its power.”

Sam moaned and dropped his face into his hands.

“That was the part of his mind which is akin to Smegol’s. That was the point at which their thoughts could meet… the point where they understood each other in ways that others might not.”

Sam wiped away tears with the back of his hand. “It tears at my heart to think of my good, gentle master under that thing’s power.”

“Don’t despair, Sam. The Ring is gone and Frodo will improve as time goes on. But now you must be vigilant. You need to use all the ‘sight’ you’ve been given to watch over him.”

“Might I see him again as the tall, shining lord?” Sam asked in a trembling voice.

“No. I would say not,” Gandalf reassured him. “It was the Ring you saw and it is gone now. But there may be a part of Frodo which will always belong to the Ring’s memory… always long for it.”

Sam nodded mutely, tears still streaming down his face.

“It may make your master sad at times,” Gandalf told him. “It may even make him ill. As long as Frodo stays in Middle-earth, the wounds he suffered, both external and internal, may never fully heal.”

Sam whispered softly. “Some part of me feared this was so, Mr. Gandalf. I felt a worry in my heart that nothin’ could make go away.”

Gandalf nodded and smiled at him. “Of that I have no doubt. And you must listen to your heart, Sam. Let it guide you as you look after the master whom you love.”

“I will, Mr. Gandalf. I swear I will.”

“I know this has been hard for you to hear, Sam. Those who call you ‘half-wise’ are fools, for you see with an insight given to only the rare few.”

Sam sat silently while Gandalf stared past him out the window to where clouds rose in the blue sky and into the mountains beyond. “Once in Rivendell I thought that Frodo would become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that could. Your eyes are the ones that will see, my good Samwise.”

“I will always protect him if I can,” Sam promised. “I love him. Whether the light shines through him or no… I love him and always will.”

Gandalf took Sam’s hand in his. “I shall not fear for Frodo while you are at his side,” Gandalf said gently. “He is blessed, indeed, to have such a friend.”

Sam said nothing, merely lowered his head and blushed, but a foreboding of intense sadness suddenly chilled his heart. He didn’t speak of his fear… didn’t really want to know the truth about the grief to come. _What good will speakin’ of it do,_ Sam thought wearily. _Bad enough I’ll have to live through what may come to pass._

Gandalf studied him for a long moment as if trying to read the thoughts behind his dark, troubled eyes, then patted his hand. “Go to Faramir now, Sam, and let your mind be at ease regarding this matter. Be vigilant in your care of Frodo, and know, Samwise, that the power which will help and heal him most in the long days ahead is your abiding love.”

After bowing awkwardly and thanking him, Sam left the wizard and wandered toward the building that housed Faramir’s quarters. As he walked, he thought about the things that Gandalf had said, and eventually he nodded.

“I don’t rightly understand it all just yet,” Sam muttered under his breath. “But what Mr. Gandalf said makes sense to me. It was the Ring I saw, or leastways the part of my master that the Ring could touch.”

He sighed as he approached Faramir’s quarters, feeling a dark and unremitting melancholy flow through him, leaving him feeling heavy and very, very alone. “It will never let him go.” Sam whispered. “He’ll never be truly himself again.” The thought of the Ring’s darkness forever clutching at his beloved’s heart was nearly unsupportable.

“But Mr. Gandalf said that my love would help and heal him most,” Sam said. “And I won’t let that love fail him.”

He walked forward again, straightening his shoulders, feeling a fierce determination fill him. “Never,” he avowed. “Never will my love fail him. No matter what it takes. No matter what I have to do or give up to see him healed… Sam Gamgee will do it. Even if it means…”

Sam stopped abruptly, stunned by a realization that flared like a bolt of lightning as Gandalf’s words echoed through his mind: _As long as Frodo stays in Middle-earth, the wounds he suffered, both external and internal, may never fully heal._

“He’ll have to leave,” Sam whispered brokenly. “Time will come when he’ll have to go to the Elven lands so he can be healed of his wounds.”

He gasped and shook his head, defiantly shaking off this appalling thought. “No!” he blurted abruptly. “It can’t **be**! He saved the Shire. He belongs there now! Safe and whole - and with me there to care for him!” A feeling of physical pain suddenly swept through him as he realized the truth that had lain hidden in Gandalf’s words. He lowered his head, his throat aching. “Blessed Eru, don’t take him away,” he begged. “Not my dearest Frodo. Not after all we’ve been through together! How could I endure the long years without him?”

After a moment he staggered and sank down onto the cobbled street, his head falling forward into his hands. Then, overwhelmed with grief, he wept. Passersby glanced in wonder at the sight of the little hobbit sitting at the side of the path sobbing as though his heart was broken, but none spoke to him.

Eventually Sam rose, drawing in deep, trembling breaths as he gathered his strength. Gondorian twilight was drawing near, and shadows fell over the white city.

He moved forward again, more slowly this time, his shoulders slumping in defeat. _I **have** to let him go,_ Sam thought. _He’d never leave me if I asked him not to… but he can’t ever be healed if he stays here, so I **have** to let him go._ He wiped his sleeve across his wet face, dashing the tears aside.

“And I **will** let him go,” he declared in a firm voice. “I will love him enough to send him to the Grey Havens when that time comes. I know my heart will break in two on that day, but I said I’d get him to the end if it broke my back and heart… and I won’t break that promise.”

Sam paused again, thinking. “He must never know. I must keep this secret safe in my heart or he’d never be able to bear it. My Frodo must find his healing… that’s all that matters now. Maybe all I’ll be left with is knowin’ that my love helped him find his way there like it helped him find the Cracks of Doom. It’ll have to do… knowin’ that he’s healed at last. It’ll have to be enough for his Sam. ”

He sighed deeply. “Because in the end… it’s all his Sam is ever likely to have.”


End file.
